Shooting For Saviors
by Bloodyx3Massacre
Summary: After a drastic change in power, the world is thrown into a chaotic reversal of time. Instead of progressing onwards, countries take on characteristics of the past to survive. Nothing is what it seems to be. US/States Later chaps!US/UK Affectionate!US/Rus
1. Introduction

Shooting For Saviors

Part 1: Introduction

. . . . .

Truly, it felt like the Second Great War all over again, but this time looking in on the ones hit the hardest instead of being the one torn to pieces from the inside out. The passing of time felt as if it stopped that day the night became day and, rather than picking up where it left off, slowly started to rewind like a yo-yo on its string. Things seemed to not progress further, but slip back into familiar times long passed. No longer did it feel like the year 2015 with ever flowing technology, but rather the long ago, sepia shaded photos locked away in museums or albums of 1945. Except, things were a little switched. Well, a whole hemisphere switched.

It was not Hitler's Europe causing mass racial purging. It was not even Europe that was hit! Tidal waves rippled through their economy and an increase of odd weather, mostly an increase of rain, occurred. They were much farther from the enemy this time. The geographical distance helped protect them from the showers of bombs. In lieu of the divided Europe of 1945, they formed a strong unity against the attackers this time.

No, this time was much more unexpected. Much more devastating. Much more surreal. There on the peaceful night of the fourteenth of June in 2015, the missiles soared through the night sky. Alarms sounded across the world as they flew undisturbed in the halcyon night. The problem was quite unexpected though and unknown to most until too late. Those flying missiles were not to make something explode into kingdom come. They were EMP, or electromagnetic pulse, bombs. High bursts of electromagnetic radiation that knocks out all computer chip devices and electrical fields. The last, but most important piece of information before the real destruction bombs dropped was that the only two targets were the Russian Federation and the United States…

The combined force of North Korea joined with their southern relatives, China, struck swift into Russia sweeping through the nation at alarming speed. What, or who, was not destroyed by the MOAB, or massive ordnance air blast, which was supposedly only produced in the US, was leveled by the invading troops that were seemingly built up in a matter of one night. Like ghosts, they appeared quickly.

As the raining terror shook the Earth, the US and Russia looked helplessly on as the brilliant falling stars ripped into their now blacken with night cities. Those in large populated cities were hit first. Moscow, Dallas, Saint Petersburg, Chicago, Samara, Philadelphia, Omsk, Las Angeles, and others were left as empty, howling shells in the wind. Unprepared and now disarmed militarizes could do nothing, but wait until the enemy landed on their doorsteps where firefights broke out. Communications failed and strategic planning became pointless.

By o' three hundred on the fourteenth in the quiet, dark night, the Russian Federation and the United States of America had fallen. Tossed back into the industrial age that mocked both the First and Second Great Wars, the two mighty powers became silent within a terrible night.

The European countries, African nations, the South American countries, and many of the other unharmed nations became shell-shocked. They could only watch on with horror unless being attacked and leveled like the other two unfortunate countries. Stock markets dived deep into the red; overseas Americans now became nation less; Russian survivors became Chinese hard labor workers and their land became part of China. Those not needed for the labor camps were packed on cramped coastal cities where they slowly were packed onto ships and sent to the Chinese built cities on California's American coastline. There they were released into city-camps that dotted the deserted, arid desert land to fend for themselves. Those from the northern, colder parts of Russia died almost immediately from the high rising summer heat of the South West states.

Without the strong government the United States had, the survivors took immediate action. They took up their ancestral ways of the American Revolution. Local groups formed militias, which turned into migrating towns of people. The first couple of groups started to move into other survivors forming larger groups. Those once in military positions took on the higher ranks, creating steadily stronger forces. Those forces then began to attack Russian city-camps freeing the captured people who then joined the American forces. After a few months though, the Asian forces began Anti-Republic sweeps that moved through the country wiping out any survivors they came across. Thousands of people were slaughtered in large groups. Their bodies lay to rot out in the sun on open plains, clear signs for other survivors to flee.

The Asian forces set up towering steel walls along the Mexican and Canadian borders lined with machine guns, barbwire, and long, sharp spikes, stopping all survivors from escaping across the borders. Attempts of aid flown in or sailed in were stopped and sent back home without completing their missions. Some were even shot down. Although on a few rare occasions, some of the daredevils that aided the survivors made it in and out without detection. The survivors and their saviors danced around the Anti-Republic sweeps.

One of those daredevil ships that had made numerous in and out missions carried into the still water through the night. Its dark blue-green paint blending into the night's sea. Weaving slowly into the once busy port of Corpus Christi in the South East part of Texas, the vessel moved slowly on only the faint breeze. Too close to the freight ship highways of the port, they calmly drifted into the awaiting deserted docks. Not knowing where the Anti-Republic troops were stationed among the large nation made movement slow and overly cautious.

Bright emerald eyes gaze wary of the dark shadows that danced in the moon light on the empty shells of still standing buildings along the shores and docks. A tight knot worked its way into the man's throat at seeing the destruction with his own eyes for the first time. Azure eyes popped up next to him, which raked across the scarred land. Even in the dim moon light, the skeletons of the buildings showed like hands reaching to God in prayer.

"Mon Dieu…" The blue-eyed nation whispered.

* * *

A/N: Just tossing up a quick intro I had to get down. It's been annoying the hell out of me. I'd like to get a couple of reviews to see if this is worth continuing or not. I might also change the name of the story if someone can come up with something catchier. For some reason, I can't get this one out of my head. Might also look into a beta reader for this one, if I do continue on. I love constructive criticism, so do review and share. Nothing is set with this story for sure yet, so ideas are always welcomed and deeply pondered upon.

Anyway, quick disclaimer: I don't own the characters, not making money off this, purely for fun and takes up time; All politics and/or situations are not my direct opinion nor judgment, they simply flow into my story easily and keep it unique; This is not based off of true or occurring events for the main plot, but this does contain many historical mentions; I am not discriminating against any culture, race, or political view.


	2. Chapter 1

Shooting For Saviors

Chapter 1

. . . . .

Strawberry blonde hair poked up over a hill followed by two hazel green eyes. A quick glimpse was all that was needed to know what lay beyond the retched landscape. Lying still, bodies laid a skewed, blanketing the ground in deep red. Taking a mental tally on how many, there seemed to be at least three dozen men, women, and a couple of small children. Hopping back down and taking quick paces towards an imploded building, the young woman nimbly juggled two bright green apples. Polishing one on her shirt, she took a large bite and balanced herself along jagged debris below.

A bright silver flashed from inside a building beside the imploded on. Something new that had not been there the day before. Walking slowly with practiced stealth, she yanked out her sheathed dagger placed on her calf. As she approached though, the silver thing grew, far larger than a gun, so it was not a sniper. Maybe a RPG launcher? No, to wide. As confusion settled in, she heard the sounds of very apparent snoring near a shattered window. She looked into the room with the reflection of her blade as she gently eased it where the glass once stood.

There lying on the floor, were two heads of blond hair. By the looks of it, two males. Both in a light beige military outfit that blended easily into the dust covered concrete jungle remains. The light blond with the long locks was tangled in a rather dusty looking blanket, while the one with choppy strands lay perfectly still on his substitute mattress, another dirty blanket. Two hand guns, a dusty painted Colt rifle, obviously civilian-based, and… a rapier? That has a hefty value on the market.

Drawing back slowly, she felt the cool touch of metal rub against her bare shoulder. She froze in her spot twisting the knife just enough to see the reflection of a double bladed, long-pole axe. That was defiantly not there before. "Easy, amiga, and slowly stand."

Hmm, that is new. Sweet Spanish that flowed like smoke instead of the sharper, guttural sounds of the Mexican open-market speakers. She moved the dagger to look up the pole to see who stood behind her, but a gloved hand reached through the window and grabbed her buck knife. Growling at her prized knife being taken forcefully, she stood slowly, obviously out numbered.

"Now you boys ain't gonna harm lil ol' me with that nas'y lookin' axe you don got there, ere ya?" She spoke in a thick country accent with a hint of a Southern bell twang.

"Depends on who you side for, non?" Blue eyes stared out the window at the girl, first looking at her face, and then perversely moving down her curvy body that lacked most clothing. Dressed in only a mid-rise tank with no sleeves and chopped up pants-turned shorts reaching the middle of her thighs, there was little room for speculation.

"Oi, Frog! Be polite!" The blue-eyed man was smacked in the back of his head by the emerald eyed male. Lifting himself out and over the window ledge, he landed calmly in front of her. Scanning over her once, he unconsciously tugged at his uniform to straighten it. "Well, you certainly don't look like the enemy."

"You boys don't look like no Slant either. Guess that makes ya the friendlies. Told dem damn boys, you lazy bunch gonna show up one'a these days, but no, of course not, Carol ain't never right." She huffed, relaxing in a split second. She tucked her hands in her back pockets and leaned back a little now that the axe blade was removed. "You sure took yo limey ass long 'nough to get 'ere, but hey, least ya showed, ya know?" She roamed her eyes up and down his body.

Arthur became rigid from the butchering of the English language and her apparent disrespect of his presence. Clicking his tongue and folding his arms defensively, he leveled a settled glare at the woman, guessing her name was Carol.

"Ahh, amiga, you're name is Carol?" Spain smiled, the only one of the bunch not to look her up and down. France continued to ogle her like a fresh meat served up to a starving mountain lion.

"That's right, boy'o. Don't ware it out, ya 'ear?" She winked at him.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but a flashing of bright light blazed in his eyes and planted itself into the brick wall of the building. He blinked several times to rid the spots before he whirled himself around to unleash a triad of angry words, most unsuitable for those of small children. He froze though as his angry emerald met furious brown eyes.

The young man stood rigid on the pile of debris that blockaded the road in front of the building. His hair a slightly darker shade of strawberry blond and looked remarkably like the young woman before him. "C'mon, Carol, we don't know whose damn side these cocksuckers be on."

Arthur instantly flushed with anger. Striding up to the now frozen male with malicious intent, he ground his teeth together before grabbing the boy by his dirty collar. "Now you listen here, you smarmy git. I will rip your tongue out of that dirty little mouth of yours and shove it up-"

Barks of laughter interrupted his impromptu speech from all three parties behind him. "North, you best damn see that look on ya face. Look like a coon just barked at ya in ya bed." The young woman broke into more laughter.

Snapping out of his stupor, he glared down at the girl, "You best shut up, Carol. I'll steal all ya damn moonshine we done stolen."

Arthur, not paying attention anymore, looked to the boy in his grasp. North? Carol? It was impossible. However, the two did look alike and sounded similar. So, maybe it was possible? He fixed a steady glare at the boy and shook him slightly by the collar to get his attention. "Boy, she called you North. What did she mean?" He tugged the boy closer.

"It don't mean shit to you, ya bloody limey." The man roared up at Arthur. "And I ain't no boy! I'm a man!"

Carol tsked at her brother and shrugged. "He's my lil brother, Carl, or North." She looked over the three, then fixed Arthur a quizzical look, "You don't happen to be one'a those big ol' countries from the East, 're ya? Maybe, England?" A ferocious look of hope glimmered in her eyes.

Arthur looked speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Francis' eyes lit up, sided next to her, and draped a little too friendly arm around her petite waist. "Suppose we are, mon cheri, who are you to know about us?"

Carol brightened, "Well there, suga', I'm lil ol' South Carolina and that there lug head is my brother, North Carolina."

"The States, amiga?" Antonio sided up on her other side, leaning his axe into the ground.

"The one and only."

Francis and Antonio shared a look, while Arthur's grip loosened considerably. Fear gripping at his stomach and clawing up his spine. If the states were separate from one another, then did that mean Alfred was gone? His jaw remained unhinged as he swayed, unbeknown to him. Carl kept a firm arm on the man in front of him, watching with a single raised eyebrow. Then taking a good look at the other man from head to toe. "Ya know, you look familia'." He squinted his eyes. "You get rid of dem cat'apilla's and you could be Massa." He received a sharp slap to the back of his head.

"Massa?" Francis spoke up.

Carol moved her fingers into a square as if taking a photo and placing Arthur in the middle, squinting one eye closed. "You right. He does look like Massa." Placing her hands on her hip, she studied him, deep in thought. Almost literally hearing the click of the light bulb above her head flashing on, she jumped into the air and whooped. "You're England! Which makes you two," she pointed at Francis and Antonio, "Other countries. Guessin' France and Spain."

Francis gave her another too friendly hug while brushing his hair over his shoulder. "Well, of course. Who else could be as charming as moi, la bella France?" He grinned his most charming smile, which seemed to go right over Carol's head, as she paid no attention to it.

"Si." Antonio patted her head as if she was a dog. "We've come to help, amiga!"

"Does that mean Alfred is gone?" Arthur's voice broke the cheerfulness with his strangled, pitiful sounds.

Carol's eyes widen before she broke out into another bark of laughter. "Course not, suga'. Take more than some lousy Slants to kill Ol' Glory." She stopped laughing as her smile turned into a frown. "He's… good, ya could say." She shifted from foot to foot, seeming to search for the right words, until another person appeared from down an alley.

"Well, blessed are my stars, Arthur!" An elderly woman with rich chocolate hair tied back with a white ribbon sauntered out in Colonial Era attire. Her deep magenta dress ruffled up small clouds of dust as she walked towards the group. Friendly smile left in place, she gestured to the siblings. "Come now, young ones, you best not be giving no boorish manners to these fine gentlemen." Her accent was defiantly from the New England area, which greatly contrasted to the more Southern accent of the siblings.

Walking fluidly over to both twin and pinching their ears, she started to drag them off back towards the alley, with minimal protests based off pleas for release from pain. She flashed a smile over her shoulder to the three older men. "You fine men, can come with us. Will put you up nicely tonight like royalty." She stopped though as if she just remembered something. "Oh, please hide your supplies better. That bright light bouncing off your tin will warn the enemies." She smiled again and continued to drag the two behind her.

The three men looked to one another and shrugged, heading back into the building to pick up what they can carry and re-wrapping the tarp over what they could not. Sprinting off after the strangely dressed woman and the two Eastern states, the three European men each carried heavy thoughts.

. . .

Leaving the boat farther behind made France and England quite cautious while Spain remained oblivious to the problems that could later become, but all three remained curious of these survivors claiming to be states. After swerving around much debris crowding the alleys, the small group emptied out into some cleaner streets rarely used due to their narrow, one-way characteristics. The two siblings, now released, followed behind the nun-like woman as quiet as mice now with eyes like hawks, searching into the depths of stone carcasses for movement.

Upon climbing over a mountain of built up rubble, a large clearing opened. Invisible from the sky stood dirt colored tents in long rows where people ambled about having conversations, playing cards, drinking, joking, laughing, living…

At the door of a particularly large tent, resting in the middle of the camp stood a blond man that paced back and forth, whipping up small clouds of dust. His brows furrowed in unsettled nerves. His chunky locks of dirty blond hair laid in disorderly chaos as the wind played with the lightest of them. His deep emerald eyes glaring holes into the dirt beneath his feet. Smudge marks trailed down his cheeks. His New England colonial outfit held deep hues of crimson and edged with dark gold. Once they were in close enough distance to the man, he lifted his head to smile at the woman, but then quickly frowned from confusion of the strangers following her.

"Who are they, Virginia?"

Startled looks settled on all three European faces not from the name of another state, but, excluding the finely groomed eyebrows instead of the caterpillars, stood an almost exact copy of Arthur. Only true difference was the slight darker shade of eyes and hair and the obvious lack of the British accent.

"Why, they're Europeans, Massachusetts!"

* * *

A/N: Massa and two or three others are going to be some of my most favorite OCs ever. I've decided to continue and I updated my profile with a little more information about this story than what is in the summary. Like the countries, the states will also have human names. I'm going to make a list later and possibly draw rough sketches of each state in my livejournal later on. Keep the reviews coming in. Like I said, I love constructive criticism. Just know, that these first few stories will not contain a bunch of information just yet. It will slowly fill in later on, that is why this story is categorized as suspenseful.

I wish to state one more time though, that all comments used such as ethnic slurs represents the emotions held by the characters towards others, like soldiers in the real world fighting against others, especially taken from the Second Great War. This story is rated T and may soon rise to M for language, gore, horror, and possibly juicy stuff later.

Edit: Thank you, blackash! Keep an eye out on my French and Spanish. I fail at both.


	3. Chapter 2

Shooting For Saviors

Chapter 2

Massachusetts warily eyed the strangers before settling his eyes on Arthur. Looking him up and down then walking in tight circles around the man, he hummed to himself in appraisal. Standing a few inches away from Arthur, Mass looked the man straight in the face, also proving to be a couple of inches shorter and much leaner, most likely due to starvation and tight rationing. "So this is the one who looks so like me." He grimaced. "Such a shame it is someone so," he fumbled for the right word, "_tyrannical_."

Arthur internally debated on laughing or punching the person out. He was leaning to the latter as the man ran his eyes up him again and he _really_ needed to learn something called 'personal space' unless he wants his little dome of safety be utterly crushed by a fistful of angry Brit. "Coming from the git who uses something like tyrannical as an adjective." Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes.

Mass puffed out his chest and leaned forward, desperately trying to regain at least some of the difference between their heights. This man had both height and weight difference against him, not to mention a state versus a country was out of the question. Arthur would win not easily per say, but pretty damn close. "So says the snobbish, limey." His glare intensified as he leaned further towards Arthur.

"Bumbling twat."

"Cat-lick cremlin!"

"Rostbif yank!"

"Dirty pommie!"

"Enfants, maybe we should stop this and act like our age, non?" Francis rubbed the bridge of his nose in irritation.

"_To hell with you, Frog!_" Both Mass and Arthur shouted, faces turning shades of red and purple, then looked at one another, preparing for a full out fist fight.

"Before you two amigos turn into gidis, let us all take a deep breath." Antonio took in a deep breath and released it, which was promptly ignored but the two mirror images.

However, before the two men could go at it again, two incredibly strong, callused hands settled firmly onto their shoulders from the flaps of the tent. "Ya'll need to settle down there, cowpokes. Ya gonna pop a vain or two with all that hullabaloo and ruckus ya'll are causing. Now, quit yipping like coons and come take a swig of some fresh brew." Large, crystal blue eyes that rivaled Ludwig's in its icy stare peeked from the flaps of the tent. The man released his hold and faded back into the shadows of the tent.

"Fine, Tex, but seriously, he started this." Mass grumbled and pushed his way into the tent, following the man.

Arthur released a shudder that rippled through his spine. The tall man had scared the wits out of him. The deep, icy eyes of something primal that was alluring and breathtaking, but frightful when angry. They seemed more stoic and more in control then the cerulean of Alfred's dazzling eyes, which were lively and bundles of emotion. Obviously, the taller man was another state with the name Tex, as in Texas, but state by state that appeared, he truly worried for Alfred. If his most beloved glasses now became a strong, independent state of Texas, then how could the young man be fairing? Curious as to see what exactly the tall man looked like, he pushed the tent flaps open to skirt into the edge of the tent, shortly followed by Antonio and Francis.

There on the right side of the tent, that seemed to be sectioned off into small personal areas by little crates that carried treasured belongings, stood the tall Texan. He carried similar traits of Ludwig and the German people, but also with some semblance to his own brother, Ireland. Texas' hair was a silver blond with the hint of strawberry at the roots. Unlike the cold German, the man's hair was partially buzzed cut around the sides, but his hair was long on the top that spiked at all odd angles even without the help of hair gel. Shining brightly in the man's right ear were three bright, silver ball-studded earrings. There in a tight red ribbon was a small barely noticeable ponytail easily hidden by a collar if need be. His clothes were form fitting with a white double button down shirt and rugged blue jeans with knee high, leather brown boots. He screamed part soldier and part rigid cowboy. From where Arthur stood, the Texan had the pronunciation of a German on his v's as f's and his s's like sch's, but he also carried the faint Irish undertone that was not completely covered by the familiar Texan accent and the sharp German accent.

He was leaned over a small man sitting on a beaten up cushion on the ground who faintly resembled a young Francis. His long blond strands pulled into a loose hair tie decked out in a satin blue ribbon. His eyes were a grayish-blue with specks of vivid silver. His thick French accent was mixed with the obvious Creole accent, instantly alerting himself as Louisiana. He wore shades of violet in a Napoleonic era outfit. Black knee high boots met with dirtied white knee length pants with a light violet button down shirt and a deep, lush purple over coat that hung to his knees.

He adamantly pointed to places that on what appeared to be a ragged map. Circles and x's marked the map in sporadic patterns. The Texan nodded and pointed to a few other parts then dragged his finger to a large black x in the center of the map.

A clatter interrupted Arthur's observation that came from a little beaten up metal teapot. Virginia had just dropped it as she tried to juggle the many tin cups in her hand. She chuckled good-naturedly to herself at her little mishap and arranged herself next to a small burner in the middle of the tent. Antonio quickly assisted her with her cups and pot, chatting away and laughing like old friends.

While everyone seemed to be preoccupied, Francis sided up next to Arthur; close enough to whisper in the man's ear. "So there has been North and South Carolina," his head bobbed to the left of the tent as the two siblings sat on a blanket-made mattress chatting merrily and eating their green apples. "Virginia," he nodded to the elderly woman in what seemed to be Puritan clothes. "Massachusetts," his eyes fluttered to the obviously volatile young man that angrily paced in his small division of the tent. "And Texas and, I assume, Louisiana," the two young men pointed to the map more frequently now.

Arthur's eyes settled once more on the pacing Massa. The young man seemed anxious and ready to spring at anyone within a three-meter radius. Finally being able to look at the man and not get his eyes ripped from his skull, he noticed that the colonial styled clothing also had the traits of his ancient pirate gear. Two large, bright rubies caught his attention and made his thieving pirate side immediately start to calculate the price on the _real_, good God, rubies that sat gracefully in the man's ear lobes. Now if only he could figure out his look-alike's characteristics…

"For the love of God Almighty, Dallas, when can we get moving!?" Massachusetts bellowed from his pacing.

The Texan huffed and looked at his watch and then to his map. "Prolly bout 'nother three hours or so, give or take a spittin' minute, Salem."

"Monsieur, maybe you should take a moment to have a sip of firewater, non?" Louisiana looked up from marking on his map.

Dallas apparently, or Texas, nimbly walked over to Massachusetts and laid a strong, calming hand on him. "Who put a burr under your saddle? Will be movin' when we get movin', but 'til then, ya gonna have ta' kick up 'em boots and tilt ya hat. 'Sides, most 'em boys feel like they were rode hard, and then put up wet."

Besides Louisiana, everyone's eyes were locked on the figure in then tent. As the confusion settled in on the obvious Texan idiom thick speech and the not so quiet giggle from Francis about the boys being 'rode hard, and then put up wet,' Louisiana got up from his cushion and folded his arms. "Monsieur, he means to say that you shouldn't be so impatient. The men feel exhausted and need to take a break. A small nap couldn't possibly be bad, non?"

Arthur palmed his face with both hands, rubbing small slow circles over his eyes. This was just too much at once. Knowing that Alfred had been terribly hit, Ivan running around doing who knows what, the States now a separate entity from their country, not to mention look-alike States, and now it seemed that the group of migrating survivors were about to start their grand movement again. He needed sleep and a good cup of tea would be greatly appreciated.

Francis was also weary. The long ship travel put a strain on their nerves when moving to avoid the sea patrols. He glanced over at Antonio, who had excitedly returned to chattering like housewives with Virginia. It was also troublesome that it appeared each State that had some sort of Eastern Hemisphere influence took on the characteristics of that country. No surprise came to him that Louisiana, his former providence, looked how he did a couple of hundred years ago. It felt like he had a dashingly handsome clone walking around. He was a little frail looking and not as downright sexy as he, but still pretty in the face.

Dallas looked over the two countries with hesitance, now appearing to notice that they had new company. Mass taking the hint, looked over with disdain. "Those two and him," Mass jerked a thumb towards the oblivious Antonio, "Are the European nations who decided to grace us with their Godly presence." He rolled his eyes.

"I know we've howdyed, but we ain't shook." Dallas extended his hand after crossing the few steps for him that would have taken twice as many for any of the others. "M' names, Dallas, and I guess ya'll know I am the person who is what Texas is."

Just watching the muscles under the tight fitting shirt scared the hell out of both Arthur and Francis. Even though the man was lean and lanky looking, the man was nothing but muscles in every inch of his body. He would probably rip his shirt if he flexed fully. Not to mention though, that this may possibly be the only State that could very well take down a country. After all, Dallas used to be his own country.

After they gingerly shook hands, too scared that they might break their hand in what appeared to be seven feet tall man, Dallas pointed to two empty makeshift beds. "Sorry we ain't got any royalties for ya'll, but ya gonna have to cover your back with your bellies."

Taking on the deer in headlights look, the two nations waited for a quick translation. Louisiana came giggling over to the two. He patted the taller man's chest friendly and smiled. "Don't mind him, mes cheris. He truly is just as lovable as a big puppy." Winking secretly to the two, he leaned closer. "He meant you two can go sleep in those two beds, we just don't have any blanket."

Sighing in relief, the two nodded their thanks and plopped down on the vacant beds. Francis pointed over to Antonio with a smug grin, "He is such a housewife. I wonder if mon cheri, Lovi takes advantage of that."

Glaring without a real edge behind it, Arthur slapped the man in the back of the head before lying down in the surprisingly comfortable makeshift bed. As he stretched, out and then curled in on himself, Arthur started to drift. The fluent German and the French replies made a steady background noise. As he slowly felt his consciousness start to ebb away, one final thought lingered. Where was Alfred?

* * *

A/N: Some of these first few chapters will seem a little long winded because I'm bringing in some major OCs. I'll be making a running list and may even draw some of them later. Anyway, review.

**Names:**

South Carolina - Carol

North Carolina - Carl

Massachusetts - Salem

Virginia - Alexandria

Texas - Dallas

Louisiana - Jean-Pierre

**Rude ethnic slurs:**

Cat-lick : Catholic

Cremlin : A European

Rostbif : Term used for an American based off of the idea of Roast Beef for Sunday dinners

Yank : Term for New England Americans

Pommie : POM-Prisoners of Mother England; used in Australia

Gidi : Spanish term for drunken Brits who start beer fights

**Texan Translations:**

Now, quit yipping like coons and come take a swig of some fresh brew - Quit fighting and come drink beer

A spittin' minute - Roughly 5 minutes or so

Firewater - Heavey alcohol

Who put a burr under your saddle? - What is your problem?

Ya gonna have ta' kick up 'em boots and tilt ya hat. - Take a nap.

Were rode hard, and then put up wet. - Exhausted.

I know we've howdyed, but we ain't shook. - We've met, but not formally.

To cover your back with your bellies. - Sleeping with no blankets.


	4. Chapter 3

Shooting For Saviors

Chapter 3

. . . . .

A collective 'Damn' echoed around the small group of wide-eyed personifications. There entering the small clearing, made to hide the flames of a large cooking fire, stood Dallas with a large, very dead, longhorn slung over his shoulders. He walked casually over to the chopping block a ways off in the back while keeping up perfect conversation with Jean, who attentively carried the large butchering knives. He easily man handled the dead steer as if it was a sack of potatoes as he prepared his heavy oak block to set up dinner.

Arthur felt his fingers tremble on his tin cup full of tea watching the – definitely _not_ human—man lug around a dead, full-grown _steer_ like a play toy. Gulping down a hefty sip of tea, he hoped the knot in his throat would sink back into the abyss of his stomach and not come out as a girly scream of fright. Dallas _screamed_ of some serial killer potential or some hard-ass sheriff in some small cowboy town. Maybe a Marine or a Navy Seal. He shuddered silently. What if _he_ was the main star of _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_? Lovely. He sucked down another hefty swig.

Francis seemed to agree with him silently, but in a more _lewd_ manner. The Frenchman sat up straight on the metal framed chair and tightly crossed his legs. Arthur cringed away from the many possible thoughts going through the Frog's mind and turned back to the more demanding situation at hand, trying his damnedest _not_ to imagine the huge, rather terrifying Texan as he brought down his meat clever of instant doom. Arthur coughed to cover the accidental squeak that no one thankfully noticed.

Watching quietly from the sidelines, Arthur followed Salem's sporadic movements as he gestured towards things on the old map. Salem was talking adamantly with what looked to be a couple of the refugee-appointed Colonels. Squinting in the fire lit night; he read Salem's lips as he spoke. Leaning towards Francis, he tugged at the man's sleeve. "It looks like he wants to move out tonight. Something about being broken up into two or three groups from the last attack? I cannot tell exactly."

"Aye, more like one of the lot got 'em selves corralled like 'em wild ponies." Dallas thick accent drifted from behind Arthur's shoulder.

Francis and Arthur both squeaked –a manly high-pitched hiccup if you asked them—at the silent yet extremely dangerous meat-cleaving Texan, who can apparently move swifter and quieter than most.

Dallas was oblivious to their terror-filled _hiccups_ as he cleaned his long butcher knife in a ratty leather rag, drops of blood landing softly onto it. "Yea, seems the main rag-tag boys got 'em selves stuck between one of 'em rocks and a hard place and done let 'em selves be collared by them damn yello' bellies." He licked his dry lips and nodded towards the group near the map, "Them boys there are tryin' to figure out a plan to get by them ole cuss before the blue norther comes rollin' in. God knows it's prolly one of 'em frog-stranglers." He clicked his tongue in irritation.

Arthur did not give a damn what a '_frog-strangler_' besides the fact that it may indeed kill either: One- the amphibious creatures or Two- French people. Arthur's face lit up as if it was all the treasure of the seven seas and a fresh load of alcohol and _booty_. His face was about to rip in two if his smile grew any wider, a smile that would rival Gilbert's bloodlust smile any day. Darting his eyes to the Frenchman next to him, a soft rumbling cackle loomed in his chest. "Frog-strangler?"

Francis paled. His eyes were wide and his skin took on a light sheen of sweat. Whatever a _frog-strangler_ was, he was scared to find out. However, the look on Arthur's face was enough to scare the life out of him. Whatever was _rollin' in_ called a _blue norther_ and had the characteristic of _frog strangling_ was enough to make him want to get back on that god forsaken little boat and high tail it back to his comfortable flat in France.

Before any more secret threats could be sent via eye contact between Arthur and Francis, Dallas quit rubbing his knife and nodded his head, not taking his eyes off the group near the map, "Yea you know, onna those biggon storms. They come floodin' some of the low lands down 'round here. Said they rain so much they kill 'em frogs too, right on the ground an all. Even though those little fellas can swim and such."

Arthur's face fell instantly and Francis began to regain colour in his cheeks. _Damn that sweet Southern language,_ Arthur grumpily thought. Crossing his arms over his chest, he looked back towards the group of men. "So what are they planning? Surely if that one group got caught, they'd be killed, right?"

Dallas chuckled darkly, raising the hair of both seated men's necks. "Well, them that got caught ain't just _anybody_. Oh, no, no. Those squaddies that got collared was the big boys." His grin turned eerie and twisted rather than cheerful. "Naw, sonnys, those damn Chinamen caught ol' Stars and Stripes." He sighed.

"Stars and Stripes?" Arthur felt his stomach plummet.

Dallas nodded, swinging his knife beside his leg absently. "Yea, ol' blue eyes. Bet them somabitches took 'em to a camp. Poor ol' purdy blue eyes." He sighed again and appeared to be staring off into nothingness.

"Who is ol' blue eyes?" Francis spoke up hesitantly, already knowing the answer and not liking it.

Dallas barked into laughter. As he quieted, he wiped tears from his eyes. "What you talkin' 'bout? You know that lil' looker prolly betta than the rest of us, cowpokes."

Arthur licked his dry lips. After two failed attempts to start his question right, he finally just spit out, "Alfred?"

Dallas smiled warmly at the name, "Alfred Fuckin' Jones." He whistled loud and slapped his hand free hand on his thigh. "Ain't he the purdiest damn thing on two legs? Yeehaw! I'd break him down like a shotgun!" He broke out into another bark of laughter.

Francis joined the fellow in laughter as Arthur sat dumbfounded like a deer in headlights. He did not understand the shotgun part one bit, but he remembered hearing Alfred switch to that sweet Southern accent a few times to tease him with Francis about how _purdy_ he was. This whole _breaking down like a shotgun_ could probably mean only one thing, if his assumptions were right and that made him blush.

Francis cooed at the tall State, "Aww, little Texas has l'amour for our dear friend Amérique?"

Dallas choked off his laughter as his face heated up. "I oughta finish up that steer. We gonna be busier than a two dollar whore on dime day." He stammered and left hurridly.

"Seems that the States might love their Union more than just family, non?" Francis pushed his hair over his shoulder and brushed invisible dirt off his clothes. Without receiving a reply from his British companion, he looked over to find the other wide-eyed and pale. "Angleterre?"

"H-he said that…" Arthur stumbled on his sentence and turned to Francis. "He said that the Chinese captured Alfred and put him in one of the prisoner camps." Arthur looked shaken and terrified. Francis than realized how heavily the situation weighed. Patting Arthur's shoulder, the man bit his lip as Arthur bit down on his thumb.

At any given moment, the Chinese could kill all of the United States of America. They could kill Alfred.

. . .

The air was still, but humid as ever in the outskirts of what was left of Ft. Worth. The flat cattle land was its usual tan with its green splotches during the spring weather. Another thunderhead, the third of many to come, loomed over the horizon. In the vast distance, lightning could be seen easily as the angry clouds hurtled towards the prairie lands.

Buckets of plastic, wood, earthenware, and mason jars lay scattered next to the eight-foot barbwire fence. With open, dehydrated mouths, the jars stood waiting for the rain. Next to the jars were bowls of all make and size. Next to those were large empty barrels. Next to the barrels began a long row of wooden barracks.

Barrack 7 stood closest to the water-thirsty containers. Its weather weary oak walls were dark. Its windows were dirty and cracked. The roof was missing a few shingles here and there. The inside was bare except for wooden cots, chairs, and a table. Outside however, people flocked together in small groups, chattering like mosquitoes; barely above a whisper to one another. People in dirty, ruined clothes stood around smoking, or playing cards, and even a few played a game of chess while others watched.

Barrack 3 however was alive with motion. It was quieter than other areas, but people quickly entered the open doorway to talk to the men inside. News came in traveling with outside information of other survivor groups. Of how one of the recently captured group's off branch was preparing to regroup with another off branch and rescue them.

A tall man sat on the floor and leaned against a bottom bunk's side of Barrack 3. His hand tangled in another man's vivid golden blond hair who lay on the two person bunk, sleeping. The platinum blond brushed his finger through the sleeping man's hair and then tangled them again. His amethyst eyes watching and scanning ever man who enter the barracks warily before they bent over to whisper in his ear of news. His discarded jacket lay at his side, but even in the humid heat, the man would not take off his scarf.

The sleeping man had rid himself of his heavy blue and red Revolutionary coat. Its knee length edges frayed and crumpled under his head as a pillow. His white trouser were spotted with dirt and blood while his heavy, scuffed black knee high combat boots lay abandoned on the floor beneath his bunk; his white undershirt thrown over them. The man lay silently on his side with even, wheezing breaths. One hand tightly clenched two dull with dust dog tags that hung loosely from his neck. A dark brown leather eye patch covered his right eye and a shallow cut across his chest, oozed blood that dripped onto the wooden slates of the bunk.

The violet-eyed man ruffled the sleeping man's hair and whispered into the eerie quiet of the barrack, "Sleep easy, мой дорогой."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the delay. On a time crunch. I'll add any meanings for what Dallas said later if people ask about it. мой дорогой means My Dear in Russian. Reviews are always loved. Not much to say about this one. Things are getting fast paced soon. A bunch of Second Great War mentions, too. Check for any errors as well. Think I might need a beta soon. The next chapter will be a heart-wrenching chapter, so get lots of tissues. Hell, some people may actually want to skip the chapter. Just a heads up. Anyway, go review.


	5. Chapter 4

Shooting For Saviors

Chapter 4

. . . . .

The parade ground had turned to soft soil, not quite mud. The clouds had not burst yet, but the cooling temperatures turned the humid air to condense, sticking to windows, plants, buildings, skin. It made people slow and clumsy with added weight. The sun was blocked by the cloudy sky, but it still felt like the pounding heat would melt the flesh off the bone. However, a strong breeze swam languidly through the maze of barracks and cooled down the hidden faces hiding along the over hangings of the wooden structures. Unlike the day before, there were no card games or chess out on the grounds, but a deafening eerie silence that swallowed up every sound. Dirty faces and equally dirty clothed bodies looked passive and world-weary. The containers with their wide mouths howled quietly as the breeze played with their rims.

The people waited. They had heard two days ago about another group being captured. They had prayed for the lost souls to themselves; alone in their barracks after lights out. Although as their captors' tongues wagged about their success, news travelled. It went straight from a group of smoking guards, to the dirty faces behind barb wired fences, to the highest officers trapped behind the walls located in Barrack 3. The captured survivors lived. They were too important to kill. Strong ones walked with them. Foreign people not from the places ruined. The highest type of officers from West Europe across the pond. Government officials.

Reports were made that their group split into three smaller groups. The other two were untraceable. The third, used as the escape deploy of the other two. The guards whispered to themselves with concern or laughter. This third group acted as if they _wanted_ to be caught. How ridiculous, who in their right mind would want to go to a camp? Or possibly die? No, not possibly. Surely.

Two dreary days later, and the whistles blew. The camp's Shang Xiao, nicknamed affectionately by the prisoners as Colonel Weasel, stomped his heavy boots onto the porch of his wooden house in the center of the U-shaped prison camp. Men hollering in loud Chinese and rough English or Russian flocked into the enclosed space, waiting for someone to step out of line. But by now, the prisoners knew the drill. Whistles go off, move. Scamper into the proper lines by rank. Stand down until the CO was at the front. Don't you show those Chinese respect. Don't you dare show them you've given up. Don't stare at the guns. Don't make a run for it.

Snorting through his nose, the CO of the camp's prisoners shouldered on his large coat. Too hot to actually wear, but light enough to toss over his shoulders to show up those Chinese bastards. The dirtied dark blue fabric still stood out amongst the browns, greens, grays, blacks, and other clothing of the once spotless soldiers and civilians. The red collar and cuffs were not the same as the dark blood that spilt across the ground from guard beatings or a death.

His right arm hung limply in a makeshift sling and his leather eye patch was tightened to keep in place. His good hand brushed off the dirt from his shoulders. Even with only one weary blue eye, he looked respectable and dangerous.

Marching onto the damp grounds outside Barrack 3, his daring blue eye caught that of his co-CO. Violet eyes silently asking him if he was strong enough to stand straight on his own. He dismissed it with a nod, winking to the man, which ended up looking like he was blinking. He marched out with confident, powerful steps full of grace and command. He stood beside the violet-eyed man with his chin raised. His sharp blue eye daring the Shao Xiao, or Major Dum Bass, for control over the prisoners. Major Bass hollered for the prisoners to stand straight and tall, but not a single person moved. He glared at the victorious smirk on the camp's CO's face. The CO jerked his head towards the co-CO who nodded and shouted to the men in the camp to '_Fall in!_' Both civilian and military alike stood tall, raised their tired heads, spread their feet, and rested their crossed arms behind their backs. Across from the men-only section stood the women, where they too stood in the position. The tall, violet-eyed man nodded towards the CO and whispered into his ear, "Alfred, this must be about the captured refugees."

Alfred did not make a move to acknowledge he heard, but continued his silent staring contest with Major Bass. However, Colonel Weasel marched near the fence and smiled at him, a sickening, poisonous smile. "As you might have heard, the camp has new additions. They have arrived. As always, we should welcome them." He raised his hand to the large, heavily armed front gate.

Descending the hill was a large group of about 200 new captives. Surrounded by guards, they were herded to the front gate until the barbwire and metal spiked gates opened. Instead of marching forward and into the enclosed area, they were herded left towards a line of soldiers who would take their identification, special belongings, and take possible weapons. This process would take hours. The soldiers made sure of that. They would purposely make the captives stand and wait.

Motion caught his eye across the way and the screams of the women caught their attention. They were being rounded up and pushed into a corner as soldiers began to swarm their barracks, pulling out any children they saw. The children were marched into the opposite corner where they shivered and cried. "What is going on?" Alfred growled over to the Colonel.

"We are moving them to special barracks just for them so they are perfectly safe." The Colonel grinned.

Alfred stood tense. He knew he could not trust this man. Everything he so much as breathed out could be, and probably was, a lie. Something about this tangled the nerves in the pit of his stomach. Something evil, something dark would occur.

The women were put into three long lines and herded towards the tiled showering rooms for an unexpected bath. Normally, the showers were only on Tuesdays. However, today was Friday. Both sides of the camp grew restless. Lovers separated by the wire shouted their love for one another, families said their prayers, and mothers hollered to their children of love and comfort. Then the women disappeared into the four large showering barracks in the back of the U-shape, behind the Chinese officer quarters.

The men remained in roll call until everyone was accounted for. Even though they were dismissed from their lines, crowds formed pressed against the wire. Hopeful eyes looked to where the women went. The children however, were pushed to the Chinese mess hall. They quickly vanished from sight too.

Alfred felt his co-CO wrap an arm around his shoulders in a comforting, but protective embrace. Alfred never took his eye off the mess hall where the children disappeared. "Something isn't right, Ivan. Something is terribly, terribly wrong."

Ivan's violet eyes gazed where Alfred's lingered, but moved back to the men in the parade grounds. He squeezed Alfred's shoulders, "We must not show fear, my friend. The men will worry if you worry. You are mother hen. The chicks will fall from line if mother hen does not seem strong. Then fox will eat them."

Alfred nodded and straightened his stance, once again lifting his chin. Ivan chuckled and patted his back. The two were just about to move back to Barrack 3 as movement from the identification process moved to the wide strip between the two inner walls of wire. There the newly captives were proceeding towards the gates that entered the inclosing. Alfred shook his head, this was not normal. They should still be waiting for hours. He rushed forward to the fence as other men moved back into the parade ground from the barracks.

The captives moved silently, looking between the fence to see any long lost family or friends. Names were shouted at sporadic times as people crowded both sides of the fence, wanting, needing to touch the other on the other side. The people were then moved into the parade grounds past the large wired gates stationed with machine guns. Past and new prisoners cried, cheered, hugged, kissed, and danced as long awaited reunifications were made. Quickly, men started to pull away from the civilians and forming their own roll call. They divided into rank and waited for their orders. Women were taken to the other side and left there.

As Ivan dealt with the new wave of soldiers and assigning them proper barracks according to rank, Alfred caught a familiar blond, unruly head of hair. He weaved his way silently closer to confirm his assumption. Once he was but a few yards, Alfred's face lit up with delight as he flung himself onto the young man in a crushing embrace, careful not to damage his already wounded arm, "Salem!"

The body pressed up against his went rigid. Hands hung tense over his shoulders as if ready to tear him away. The person's heart thumped erratically against his ribcage and he took in short intakes of air. "A-Alfred?" A very strong British accent asked him.

Alfred immediately loosened his grip and pulled back to face the person. However, before he could ask the bushy browed man anything, Ivan was at his side. "Arthur, Francis, how unexpected to see you."

Arthur soaked in ever detail of the nation against him. All the new details and old crashed into one large collage of what Alfred had become. Not paying attention to the man Alfred had wrapped in his arm while looking over at Francis, Arthur traced a hand up Alfred's neck, fingertips gently grazing the bottom of the eye patch. Before he could fully touch the soft leather, he was dropped back to the ground on his feet and Alfred pulled away to once again press against Ivan's side. He blinked up into the confused eyes of the American, who had his brows furrowed with frustration. "You're not Salem. Who are you?"

Arthur's world seemed to stop. The voices and background noise disappeared and time seemed to slow. His first reaction was to laugh it off. Alfred was just playing another one of his stupid games, but as the time ticked on, he lost his desire to laugh. His face fell into a shell-shocked realization. Alfred was not playing. He honestly did not remember him. No Frenchmen and Indians. No taxes. No tea. No Revolution. No 1812. No Confederacy. No 'Special Relationship.' No 1945. Nothing.

Ivan stepped in immediately. "Arthur, you've met some of the States, da?"

Arthur remained frozen to his spot, but Francis stepped up and nodded.

"In order to save Alfred," He hugged the smaller man next to him, "The States had to separate taking all his history with them, leaving him with no memories. If one fell the others would survive and so would the dreams of an American." He ruffled Alfred's hair.

"And you are?" Alfred did not like _not_ remembering. Obviously, he was supposed to know these two men, but nothing would click. Not to mention they looked so much like Louisiana and Massachusetts. Before he could get his questions out or answers in, large rumbling noises filled the air. From behind the guard's mess hall, three large cargo trucks with open truck beds pulled out and onto the wide road in the middle of the camp. "Oh no, no, no."

In the truck beds stood and sat all the children collected. The older ones held the youngest in their arms as the children in between sat and clung to one another. They looked confused and frightened, but some of them smiled and waved. People pressed against the fences on both sides to get closer to the children. The barbwire cut into the soft flesh of the people as they desperately screamed and pushed towards their children, begging and pleading and hollering for their children to run. The children remained on the trucks though since they sat too high up for them to jump.

Alfred pushed himself away from Ivan and ran past the throngs of people to a parallel location of Colonel Weasel stood on the opposite side of the gate. The man was smiling as his guards laughed. "What is the meaning of this? Where are they going?"

Colonel Weasel smirked down at him from the ledge of his porch. "Why my dear comrade, I told you. They are being taken to a new set of barracks especially for them for their safety." His smirk turned twisted and evil. "I believe your people called it Kingdom Come? The big heavens where the angels fly and God rests."

Alfred's breath caught in his throat. He looked back over to the transport trucks. "You're going to kill them?" He whispered.

"More like putting them out of their misery, freeing their souls." Colonel Weasel nodded to his guards at the front gates to open and allow the trucks out.

Alfred moved down the fence away from the Colonel and towards the hordes of people screaming and calling to the children. Ivan's presence was once again at his side. His gaze held confusion and fear as they flicked from Alfred to the children. "What is happening? What is going on?"

"The chicks…" Alfred's blue eye locked onto the people then shifted back to the children.

Arthur stood pressed up against the fence so he had a better view of the loaded trucks. Francis stood back a little, but tiptoed to see all three. Arthur looked to Alfred then to Ivan. "What are they doing with the children?"

Alfred moved forward again with hysteria in his eye and voice. "Sing! Sing! Follow my lead, and sing!"

"What-?" Ivan stopped, realizing the answer at once. "Oh, God."

_"__Come little children I'll take thee away, into a land of enchantment. Come little children the time's come to play here in my garden of magic." _Alfred bellowed out into the crowed in a sweet, smoky tenor. The people closets to him realizing what the song was, picked it up quickly, and passed it around. It spread like wild fire throughout the hordes of people.

"_Follow sweet children I'll show thee the way through all the pain and the sorrows. Weep not poor children for life is this way, murdering beauty and passions."_ Ivan's deeper, huskier voice sung out to the women on the other side who screamed bloody murder at finally understanding what was happening to their children. They too quickly picked up the song.

_"__Hush now dear children it must be this way to weary of life and deceptions. Rest now my children for soon we'll away into the calm and the quiet. Come little children I'll take thee away, into a land of enchantment. Come little children the time's come to play here in my garden of shadows." _The whole camp sang to the children.

As the trucks started to move, the children whimpered and hollered their parent's names. The three diesel trucks slowly pulled away from the center of the camp and made its slow, cruelly teasing way down to the main gates. The trucks passed the main gates with two teams of eight Chinese soldiers encircling the vehicles, keeping their prisoners trapped. The crowed continued to sing even as the last of the three trucks climbed the hill and disappeared over the top.

The rain begun to fall, coating the parade ground in thick slabs of mud. Lightning strikes lit up the sky. That evening, the sky was filled with ash.

* * *

A/N: Wow, I actually had to take a quick drink of rum after this one. Sorry it seemed rushed at the end, just a little too much at once, but the next chapter will flesh it out better. I wanted to keep the confusion and suspense going. Reviews are joy.


	6. Chapter 5

Shooting For Saviors

Chapter 5

. . . . .

Yao sat rigid and tense in his bamboo twisted garden chair, sipping fresh tea. He absently rubbed at this sleeve in tight circles. His fingernails glanced over the thick cloth of his uniform. He leaned against the high back of his chair in the back garden of his private house tucked safely in the hills of his home country, but even the normally relaxing atmosphere had turned sour and suffocating. Lines of worry, frustration, self-hate, and anger were etched into deep canyons on his forehead. _His_ government, _his_ people, _his_ friends, _his _family, _his_ monsters. All of this had gone too far. This twisted, sickening desire for power and money. He wanted peace. He wanted to go back to how it was. Where he could sit down with all his friends and laugh and smile and talk about everything and nothing all at once.

The teacup landed with a crash on its side followed by the teapot, the china dish with the sweet buns, and finally the small iron framed glass table.

Yao pulled at his uniform. It felt hot and constricting like a python wrapping around its prey for the final strike. His lungs convulsed for air, heaving and panting. His hands pulled at tuffs of his hair. Tears leaked from his bloodshot eyes and splattered on the hard river bottom stones forming his garden pathways. His skin burned from invisible fires. With every death of the so-called enemy, he grew stronger. He could feel the fear radiate in waves off his once-friends.

Yao's eyes rolled to the cloudless blue sky, his spine rigid, and he howled in anguish and pain to the heavens above.

. . .

Alfred felt uncomfortable. Overwhelming love, anger, adoration, betrayal, intense hurt coursed through his blood. Making sure to keep his breathing low and steady, he shifted into a more comfortable, if that was possible on planks of wood, on his assigned bunk, keeping his back towards the two unfamiliar yet familiar people and Ivan. He was out of earshot of the whispering men, but he could feel the confused eyes of the new people rake over his back, especially the sharp green eyes that bore into his skin and spine straight to his soul.

It made him shiver just remembering the hurt and fear that shone brightly in those eyes after Ivan talked a little to them after the children were taken. He said something about not remembering? Alfred frowned. He knew he did not remember everything… Okay, he did not remember anything up until the point where he woke up in a chaotic world.

_A sharp chill penetrated his skin, something unheard of in the middle of June. A bittersweet iron taste filled his mouth. A sticky liquid ran over the right side of his face. He felt tired, unbelievably exhausted and his bones ached as if he grew too big too quickly. He pushed himself up on unsteady arms. More of the sticky substance rolled down his right arm. Touching it gently he tried to inspect it, but found that it was blurry and kept moving._

_ He looked around his surroundings. White room with faded maroon carpet, windows busted wide open with glass splinters sprinkled around, papers flowing freely across the ground, and bodies. Most laid still, some groaned and twitched, some moving and calling for others or help. He half dragged himself to the corner of a nearby desk where he pushed himself up onto unsteady legs that felt on fire with pins and needles. Like a newborn colt, he pushed off objects in the room and propelled himself through the rooms and halls. People lay strewn like dolls around the building that seemed familiar, but different._

_ Another man in a black suit with black sunglasses and black shoes came trotting up to him through the wreckage. "Mr. America! Mr. America, sir! Thank God I found you. Quickly, we must get you somewhere safe." More men in black came moving slowly to him, some injured badly._

_ "Am… America?" He tested slowly. His unsteady eyesight tried to concentrate on the man's face. "I don't know-"_

_ A large bang echoed through the room as a large solid wooden door cracked open, hitting the wall behind it. "Alfred!" A short blond man in unusual clothing ran towards him, pushing past the men. "Thank God." He looked Alfred up and down._

_ "Umm, sir?" The man in black asked carefully. "England? Why… How did you get here, sir?"_

_ The short blond man whirled on him, chest puffing out and face flaming red with anger. "How dare you call me by that, that, that… _monsters_ name! I am certainly _not_ that monarchical bastard." He smoothed his colonial, Alfred, he thinks that's him, recalled questionably, clothing and brushed small puffs of dust off. "I, sir, am the City upon a Hill, my good citizen. I am Massachusetts." He stood straight and proud while jabbing a thumb into his own chest._

_ The man, Massachusetts, immediately forgot the man and turned to look at him. "Are you alright? Can you speak?"_

_ He looked around the room, looking for anything to hide behind, to run. He was scared and he hurt. Gulping down a breath, he looked to the small man. "I-I.."_

_ "Yes?"_

_ "Who am I?" He squeaked out._

_ The man frowned then his face lightened a little. Reaching out, Massachusetts grabbed his hand and patted it between both of his. "You, my dear Glory, are America." Noticing the look of uncertainty, he quickly added, "Or Alfred. That might be easier for now."_

_ "We need to get moving now, sirs." The men in black moved towards the exit, securing the way._

_ The blond man tugged him forward by the hand towards the door until he started walking on his own. "You can call me Salem. That's much easier, yes my dear Glory?" His smile was vibrant. Something screamed to him that this fellow was someone to deeply trust. However, he could not remember anything and that scared him. He did not know who he was, where he is, or what was going on._

_ Feeling the smaller almost feminine hand in his squeeze comfortably made him relax some. Something about it felt just so _natural_. He could swear upon his own pride and flag that- Wait. Flag? His flag? He frowned, passing down another hallway. That was right. He was what people call nations. Something pierced his mind from right to left, edging like slow, cold fingers raking down a chalkboard. That was right. He is American. The United States of America and Massachusetts was a State. Reaching up with his free hand to try to relax the pain, his hand ran into the sticky substance again. This time however, his vision had gotten better and with only one quick glance, he could tell it was blood. _His_ blood. He gulped another breath and the hand in his squeezed again. "Don't touch that yet. We need to get you bandaged." Salem had one eye fixed on him as they weaved over fallen debris._

_ This man was someone who lo-_

"Alfred, I know you're not sleeping." A familiar cold hand raked through his hair, shaking him out of his thoughts.

He looked up into the questioning violet eyes. "Need something?"

"Why don't you say hello. They haven't seen you in a very long time." Ivan prodded gently to get the man up and moving.

Alfred frowned, but did as he was told. He stood and hooked his fingers in the bottom frays of the overly large, comforting scarf the older man wore. He averted his eye from the two men to stare down at the floor, but a small nudge in the ribs made him bring it back up to properly greet the two. He felt like a young child hiding behind his mother when meeting strangers for the first time; so shy and timid.

"How are you, Alfred?" Arthur spoke soft and quiet, as if afraid that he might startle and scare the boy at any instant.

Alfred gave a small shrug and gestured with his free hand to his surroundings. "'Suppose I'm okay. At least I've got a roof here."

Arthur nodded hesitantly. Of course, the boy would think that this place was good. He could not remember the large white and blue trimmed house on the edge of Virginia, or the small brick cattle ranch home on the plains of Texas, or the overly fashionable houses in New York and Hollywood. Or even the quaint ancient home he had spent the past two months in with him in England before the war broke out…

Arthur's eyes locked on the boy again as he pressed closer to the tall Russian, the silence deafening. "Oh, I forgot. You must not remember us. I'm England or the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland." He chuckled to himself, "Must sound too long and pompous for you. You can call me Arthur." Reluctantly, he waved over to Francis beside him, "And this is the frog."

Francis huffed and rolled his eyes. "I am France, or Francis if you prefer, mon cher." He leaned his head toward Arthur. "He is still a pompous old man."

Arthur glared at him, "And you're still a wine bastard."

Feeling the upcoming fight, Alfred took a step behind Ivan to partially hide himself. Both of the older men stopped their bickering. "Ah, this is normal for us." Arthur smiled in hopes Alfred would relax. Francis patted Arthur on the shoulder, trying to feign companionship. Alfred relaxed a little and stared curiously at the other two.

"You are both from the European continent, correct?"

Both men nodded in unison, curious at where the boy was moving this conversation.

"So why are you here?" Alfred grew bolder.

Both men looked startled at the harsher tone and the cold question. "Well to see you of course, Alfred. We wanted to see if we could find you and poss-"

"We don't need you. Not now. You're late. Very late. It's pointless for you to be here." Alfred cut in harshly, his solo blue eye narrowed dangerously.

Ivan nudged him again. "He is just tense from what has happened lately. Forgive him. I'm sure you understand with what happened the other day."

"O-of course, Ivan." Francis recovered quickly and smiled to the older man while Arthur stared perplexed at Alfred, who had turned his eye to the ground again and clung tighter to Ivan's scarf. Arthur could estimate all the damage the man, he corrected himself, no longer a boy, had taken from the attack by just viewing what lay uncovered. He guessed that the right eye happened to be Hawaii and the whole right side was the West Coast. He should have come at once to aid them, but he just could not. He wanted to, but was restricted not to. Now, now his Alfred did not remember him, did not trust him, did not want him- Arthur got off that thought pattern. Alfred was not his. Hadn't been his since the independence. This Alfred before him was different, not the overly loud, happy-go-lucky one. This one was timid and angry, yet bold and calm.

Alfred turned away and grabbed his jacket, one that both Francis and Arthur cringed from the memories of, and stormed out of the barrack into the muddy parade ground.

. . .

Yao stepped onto the hard concrete that formed the large outer wall towards the docks. Eyes ran over the red and yellow that decorated the small makeshift town below. Merchants and soldiers moved about. His dull eyes jumped following no pattern.

A woman sold a fresh fish to another young woman, whose child was playing with marbles with other children down the nearby alley. An elderly man sat on his hunches gambling with dice with a couple of soldiers and other elderly men. Won a cufflink and some pocket change enough to buy two loaves of bread and a hindquarter cut. Two men sat on small stools sandwiching a crate with a chessboard on it. Queen to knight black, bishop to pawn sacrifice white, bullshit two moves, other moves for a defense leaving rook open, good, move three space right, knight to bishop white. His eyes moved to another poker game, this time an American game, Texas Hold'em. King, jack with a double queen, ten on the line. Bet. Check. One on the right is lying. Check. Lay 'em out.

"Sir, Korea is here to see you about Canada and part of Russia."

"Of course, aru." Knight to queen black. Checkmate.

* * *

A/N: This one feels slower and not as rushed which is nice. Getting tired of the no action though, hint hint. Could use a beta if anyone might be interested. Need some help with connecting ideas.


	7. Chapter 6

**Title: **Shooting For Saviors  
**Author: **Stolz  
**Rating: **T  
**Pairing:** Main: US/UK Hints in this Chapter: Canada/France, Germancest  
**Summary:** After a drastic change in power, the world is thrown into a chaotic reversal of time. Instead of progressing onwards, countries take on characteristics of the past to survive. Nothing is what it seems to be.  
**Warnings:** Calm chapter, crazy aliens

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Shooting For Saviors

Chapter 6

_Zip._ And another body hit the ground. _Zip. Zip_. Double headshot, 200 points. _Zip. Scream._ 300 points, nut shot. Total points, 4,600. Dead, 52 with one woun- never mind. Dead, 53. "Fucking chinks."

An average height man lifted his bizarre and unearthly gun over his shoulder, as it fizzed a gooey green. His jet black eyes scanned over the dead. Poking a few, stealing identification cards from higher ranked people as souvenirs, and leaving the rest for his partner to deal with. Touching a few buttons on his wristwatch, which was actually some extraterrestrial telecommunication device, he popped up a small screen, which buzzed and hummed as it located his position. His sickly pale skin and his short vivid green mohawk stuck out like a plastic pink flamingo in an arid desert, not to mention his choice in '70s clothing. "Another batch for you, Andromeda."

The little green screen flickered over to a woman with bright violet hair with pink spots. Her clothing looked like something out of a bad mix of meth and acid at a light show, with the underlying tune of _The Dark Side of the Moon._ "By Bindy! Like, really? I'm going as fast as I can here, but this damn machine is, like, so totally slow. I mean, geez, turning humans into nutrients for the soil is, like, so not easy." She started to give a wheezy laugh, and snorted a few times. "I so wanna stuff one as a decoration for the bar back home. Think of what all the guys would say!"

Tony huffed. "Thought we already had that problem. Remember Gigio's cousin? The one that went by something stupid… I think it was Alien. He stuffed a few, and then it got out of hand. Fucking human hunting. It's bad enough they do that themselves." He flicked out a cigarette from a metal case he carried in his breast pocket.

Her nose piercing sparkled in the sunlight. "Well, like, whatever. This ground is so gonna be, like, fucking rich. It will become the new superpower thanks to us. Maybe we can, like, blackmail for, like, money or something."

Tony snorted back a snide remark. "What the fuck is it going to give us? Fucking fruit? Maybe some corn? Oh, I don't know, a tree?" His grin was a cavern of sharp looking lizard teeth. "I know, I want a fucking blade of grass."

Andromeda rolled her eyes and huffed. "So totally not groovy." She then hung up on him.

Tony stubbed his smoke out, picked up a purple glowing ray gun, and looked at his watch. Flicking some buttons, the screen located his position with precise accuracy.

"Tom-Tom, locate me the next bunch of Chinese humanoids."

"_Please follow the directions indicated to you. Turn left three miles north…"_

. . .

"WEST~!"

_Oh dear Gott, _Ludwig wanted to bash his head against something hard, _not again._ His icy blue eyes looked over the feverish eyes of pure blood-lusting joy from his _bruder_. Watching the older male bounce on his heels like a child getting a puppy, or a bicycle, or—in some weird case—dealing with his _bruder_ however made the situation normal, a new red dress with a black slip; it was a gift from Francis.

"_Ja, Ost_?" He tried to remain calm and collect and, _oh just fuck it all._

"We should call up Francis and borrow his catapults, or maybe call up Antonio for his armada—oh shit, wait, no… Arthur took care of that. Well, anyway, we can go get the guillotine from the basement and dust it off…" His bouncing not once faltering. "Could call up that uptight, Roderick, and see if I could borrow some horses to make a cavalry…"

Ludwig just stared at his _bruder_, not seeming to be phased at all by the words the older male sputtered. He could not deny though that he was somewhat fond of the guillotine, but of course, he would not indulge the other man for fear of finding the atrocity in his living room one day. It was very stifling and needed to be fixed up greatly. With a new polish, and the blade sharpened, then maybe…

"We need rope!" The scrambling of Gilbert heading from the kitchen's large island in the center towards the upstairs pulled him from his thoughts.

Two purple eyes of confusion, but secret realization, then utter horror stared at him. One eyebrow rose in questioning, but Ludwig shook his head. "_Bitte_, don't ask for your own sake."

The other blond nodded, following the advice. "I honestly should have expected something, since he does hang around Antonio and Francis so much."

Ludwig shrugged his shoulders and downed his beer; the forth out of many, lest he wish to be sober for what is to come. He cracked another one as Gilbert came diving down the stairs. In one hand, a good nine feet of rope dangled, and in the other was a leather riding crop. Slung over his shoulder were two long-bows. He snuck up on Ludwig, who knew he was there, but as Gilbert drew down the crop in an arc against the marble counter top, Ludwig went rigid. "_Achtung, mein_ West!" Gilbert bellowed into Ludwig's ear, causing the young man to glare at him.

Matthew watched the two with both amusement and worry. After all, who wouldn't be afraid for their house, with two very cataclysmic Germans in such a small breathing distance? He watched carefully as Ludwig whipped out an arm, snatched up the albino in one powerful swoop of his arm, and pressed the smaller man into his rock hard chest. His glare never leaving his face. Ludwig looked to Matthew with an apologetic smile, ignoring the struggling and muffled resistance from the man trapped between his arm and chest. "Corporal cuddling; Feliciano suggested that it would be a better way to tame outbreaks of anger. Part of this whole…" he fumbled for the correct words, "anger management program."

Matthew smiled and nodded in understanding. "It seems to be working perfectly, although you may wish to release him soon. It looks like he might run out of air soon..." His smile vanished as he peered over at the now steadily slowing Gilbert.

Ludwig mumbled over to him before sipping down the rest of his beer, "Oh, he's okay. He has another two minutes and seventeen seconds before he faints." He shrugged, not caring.

Matthew paled and sipped his tea until Gilbert yanked down on Ludwig's Iron Cross, causing the blond to release him. "Christ, West! I never knew you were a cuddler in public." He swooned as if the whole thing was a sign of affection.

Ludwig looked to Matthew with an '_I told you so'_ expression and Matthew returned it with an apologetic smile for the insanity the younger man must deal with. Gilbert grinned up at Ludwig, who was still taller than he was even while sitting on a bar stool, and nuzzled his arm; the many small, sterling silver rings in his ears clinked together. "Maybe we can cuddle later!"

"_Oi, Ost_!" Ludwig hollered, knocking Gilbert in the nose with his arm. A steady blush rose from his neck to his ears.

Matthew watched the two silently, comparing the differences between the two 'brothers'. Ludwig was dressed in a white wife beater with a blue stripe down the side in which if the man flexed once, the thing would tear. However, Gilbert was defiantly the punk out of the two of them. He wore a solid black tank under all of his clothes, and a mauve and fuchsia horizontal striped shirt over it that hung off his shoulders and pooled up and over his hands. Ludwig had two thick sliver band earrings with black crosses in his right ear; Gilbert had seven random piercings in one ear, four in the other, and a tongue piercing. Not to mention all the miscellaneous rings on his fingers, with only one plain silver band around the ring finger, which matched the one Ludwig wore on the opposite hand. While Gilbert screamed defiance and '_Suck my funf meters, bitches,'_ Ludwig was quiet confidence, and control.

It made Matthew miss his brother even more. Ludwig and Gilbert, though not technically brothers like Alfred and himself, were complements of one another. They matched with their differences. The strings to his heart were pulled. He felt lonely. Both Francis and Alfred were somewhere over the large steel wall.

And the Koreans were coming for Alaska, and eventually him.

"So I figured we could all go in like smoking aces, hand those Asians their asses on the Kaiser's old silver plate, then blow 'em sky high, while _still_ being able to be back home in time for wursts and beer!" Gilbert chattered playfully to his _bruder_. He wiggled his brows playfully, "'Course, after conquering their vital regions, and returning Francis' catapults, you can come conquer me, _West~!"_

Matthew smiled and shook his head at the two's antics. He was scared to find out if he would honestly come conquer the shit out of China and Korea with a couple of hundred-year-old catapults. Although, it would be a wonderful documentary for BBC. _The Germans Strike Again. _Hmm, never mind, it sounds more like one of his brother's Hollywood movies. Hopefully with none of those little gremlin puff balls running around. Good God that gave him nightmares for weeks. On the other hand, after a week of the finest smoked green, a neon coloured beanbag, weird balls of flashing lights, and _The Holy Grail_ –which Arthur just _had_ to snort while dressed as some punk rocker weirdo about how terribly wrong everything was about the movie- it would make one hell of a party. God, how he missed the '70s with his brother sometimes.

As he drank from his mug, he watched Gilbert try and fail many times to push Ludwig up the stairs. Ludwig just stared down at Gilbert, who pushed with his whole body, and not budged. Well, until Gilbert smirked. Ludwig subconsciously stepped back. Gilbert lunged. Ludwig however picked him up by the back of his shirt collar, efficiently stopping the albino from crashing into anything. Hefting the man up and over his shoulder, Ludwig grunted and jerked a thumb towards the adjacent garage. "We'll be in there getting ready to load."

Matthew needed to remember to find his video camera.

He shuffled on his boots and a jacket then slunk out the kitchen door. Grabbing a bag of maple flavored oats from beside the door; he trotted into dense forestry in his backyard. After some quick prodding and calling, a very large, very strong moose came walking over to him. Petting the moose on the snout, he dropped a good bit of the oats on the ground. "How have you been, Tadpole? Heard anything, eh?"

The moose stopped his chewing, and leveled him with an uncaring, unemotional face. "Ain't heard aboot much 'round lately. Moostly stuff come through been aboot the wall."

Matthew scuffed his feet against the grass and patted the moose again. "What aboot them Koreans, eh? They are suppose to be a nasty bunch."

Tadpole munched down on another handful of oats. "Nothing you can right do aboot it, eh. However, that brother of yours is pitching a tantrum. His people ain't too happy, ya know."

They were interrupted by the shrill hollering of '_But, bruder! I want a golden catapult!'_

Tadpole the moose munched down on more oats not caring about the noise_. _"Almost time to go over that wall, eh?"

"Eh." Loud, echoing _dongs_ vibrated through the forested area, rattling birds into the air. It was the alert that something or someone was on the spotted on the other side of the wall. Very few things approached the wall, whether it was animal or human, and the few rare times when something did approach, it had been a small pack of survivors numbering around forty and ranging as far south as Arizona following along the Rockies.

Matthew patted Tadpole and trekked back to the house where the German pair had already prepared the diesel cruiser—with many complaints from Gilbert by the unawesomeness of limited amounts of weapons and the actual need for food and water. For the third time since the wall was built, Matt was about to travel across and into his brother's land.

* * *

A/N: Oh my God, I am so sorry for being gone for so long. Soooo many problems erupted this summer that I had no break what so ever.


End file.
